Page 62 of Wedded to the Devilish Highlander
His hands mapped her body with infinite care—the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the elegant arch of her back. Each discovery was met with a worshipful kiss, a brush of his calloused fingertips, a low rumble of approval deep in his chest.
“Perfect,” he rasped against her skin, moving to her throat, her shoulder, the juncture between her neck and collarbone.
She tasted salty and sweet all at once.
“Every inch of ye,” he growled, his brogue thickening with every desperate kiss, “mine.”
Eileen whimpered when he nipped the sensitive spot just below her ear, her nails digging lightly into his shoulders.
“Archer,” she gasped, her voice breaking on his name.
“Aye, lass,” he muttered against her skin, his hands slipping beneath the hem of her gown, finding bare, silken thighs. “Say it again.”
Her breath hitched. “Archer.”
He groaned, pressing his forehead to her chest, overcome.
She wasn’t shy with him. She wasn’t pretending.
She wanted him.
Wantedthis.
And he’d be damned if he didn’t worship her properly.
Slowly, reverently, he lifted her off his lap and laid her down atop the quilts as if she were spun glass, his eyes drinking in her flushed cheeks, her kiss-swollen lips, her mussed hair.
He sat beside her, trailing a warm hand from her knee up the outside of her thigh, worshipping her with his touch. When he reached her waist, he hesitated. Gave her time to stop him.
She didn’t.
Archer sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of her under him—the simple linen shift clinging to every dip and curve of her body.
God help him.
He’d never seen anything so achingly beautiful in all his life.
“Ye’re killin’ me, lass,” he said, his voice thick, “and ye dinnae even ken it.”
She laughed softly, a breathy sound that turned his blood on fire.
Their mouths collided again, a desperate clash of teeth, tongues, and moans. Archer braced his weight on one forearm, the other hand sliding up her ribs, feeling her heart racing just beneath the thin barrier of her shift.
He kissed her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast through the fabric, taking his time, savoring her gasps and the way her body writhed beneath him.
He was utterly, completely obsessed with her.
Every touch, every sigh, every tremor was etched into his soul.
He kissed a path down her torso, his mouth branding a trail across her stomach and hips.
Eileen’s fingers tangled in his hair, her breathy whimpers sending him closer to the edge.
He wanted to bury himself in her heat. Wanted to claim her so thoroughly she’d never doubt for a moment that she was his—and he was hers.
But not yet.
Not until she begged him for it.
